


self

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [90]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Instability, Suicide, Vent writing that got out of hand, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27204911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: One life down, infinite more to go.(Or, eventually you won't come back and that's what you're hoping for)
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [90]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 31





	self

He didn't know what started it. Couldn't remember, and it hadn't even been important, had it?

But they were yelling, he was shouting, hissing and bristling in misplaced anger, so much violent anger, _why_ was he always so _angry_ -

And it boiled, frothed inside himself, flooded out in venomous, angry words, and the nightmare sword in his hand flickered and shadows whipped and smoked up in his excitement, in his blind rage, he was so, so very _angry_ -

And he didn't know why! There had been no reason to blow up about whatever had started this, small enough to forget near instantly, and Wilson snarled at him back with almost the same amount of vigor, a different kind of anger, a thick frustration and words that smeared incomprehensibly in a shouting mess that no one would ever be able to parse through, no, not ever.

And then he had drawn his sword back, raised it with a violent shout, and the argument had gotten physical.

And he knew he would lose, as he always did, as he always would, yet...

He almost expected that spear to gut him, give him the killing blow, _kill me_ , but instead he was smacked by the blunt butt of it and arms walloped until he near almost dropped the shadow blade.

And all the while, Wilson shouted at him. He didn't want to fight.

Maxwell didn't let that stop him, his weak swings and out of practice slices going out wide as he missed the other man every single time, and he was already tired and exhausted and bruised up the longer this dragged on but-

-but he was just so _angry_. It throbbed within him, has been simmering for days, weeks, _decades_ , and it overflowed after this one little misstep, miscommunication, and he ran with it with every last shred of his mental and physical energies, torn and frayed and faded beyond comprehension by now.

Wilson shouted at him to stop. Shouted on how stupid this was, on the waste of time and resources, on the waste of energy, on any number of things, and-

-and Maxwell swung his sword, rage pounding in his ears and he was just so _godawfully tired, so, so very tired of all this._

 _Kill me_ , he wanted to scream back, but those words he strangled within his throat, strangled within his chest as he lashed the sword out again and again, glancing off the blocking spear, doing nothing at all in the grand scheme of things.

 _He_ was nothing, in the grand scheme of things.

Wilson tried to talk to him, tried to get through to him in the hateful enraged madness, but he was having none of it. It was too late for him, always been too late, always will be too late, and the rage ran hot and red and spiteful, eating him alive as every clash of nightmare sword to wooden spear sunk the blade in deeper and deeper, until-

-until it finally splintered, cracked, then snapped in half. Wilson went down, unharmed but surprised, vulnerable and weak without a useful weapon, and Maxwell swung the nightmare fueled sword up in one arc, all rage and madness and _he was just ever so bloody exhausted, let him rest, let him..._

_...Let him die._

The nightmare swords blade tip stopped an inch from the other man's chest, shaking as Maxwell panted, as he gagged on his own rage, this red hot mixture of too much and too little and bitingly harsh when infused to his lonely fatigue, good _lord_ did he _want to die-_

Wilson stared up at him, faint fear, faint determination, that familiar swell of bravery, and Maxwell stared back, filled with just so much rage and heartbreak that everything that almost near held it together was peeling apart at the seams.

He had no future, in this place. He didn't think he ever truly had a future, honestly, and perhaps that was for the best. He was a nobody, after all, and his presence only fouled up happier memories; who in their right mind would choose him any other day? He had never been the option, the go to, and he never would be; Wilson was here because he was a good person, he wanted to help, he wanted to save, and no other reason. 

He wasn't here because it was _Maxwell_. No one would ever be here, if it was only for _Maxwell._

The thought, understanding gripped him hard, squeezed the rotten wilted remains of what could be his heart within shadow slick grasps, the parasites eating him alive and soon to spell his end, so very soon if he kept on this path and oh _lord-_

 _Soon_ , he thought, delirious and hysterical, hyperventilating as his every breath whistled through his straining lungs, _soon and it will all be over._

 _God_ did he want this to all be over. He'd do anything, to end it all.

To end him.

The thought shuddered through him, sparked an idea that quickly ate up his rage, nurtured itself into size and shape and-

-and Wilson might have seen it, for a split second, a quick flash of the blinding end in his eyes, but he wasn't fast enough to stop Maxwell from turning his nightmare sword inwards and shoving it straight into his chest.

Barely nicked his heart, he blindly thought, as dark foul blood bubbled up from the wound, sizzled against the swords fuel material, and then the world swam and he tipped to the side, slid down in an ugly collapse into the dust and dirt, off the only one who would ever give him a moments brief thought.

Forgiveness would never be there, Maxwell knew, and he so hoped it stayed that way. He has never earned it, certainly didn't deserve such a heartfelt thing, and it tugged and gnawed straight through his core just as fast as the sword, cold and hungry and ever so alone, so cold and alone.

Death was always this way. Maxwell has died so many times that by now he knew the ins and outs, understood his place in all this.

Pain slid in and out of focus, just as much as his spotty vision did, and vaguely he felt hands on his shoulders, hands pulling him up, a shell shocked haggard voice shouting out above him as he was dragged, and perhaps they'd parade his corpse about, perhaps they'd celebrate now-

His memory was dying, slowly but surely, and eventually he would mean less than nothing to the lot of them, as little as they cared now. 

His blood was hot on his chest, soaking into his torn suit jacket, nightmare fuel oils sizzling and spreading just as fast as he bled out, a foul darkened crimson mess testimony to his pains, and yet even the agony felt misplaced, ever so slightly out of earshot, and Maxwell rattled out a breath that brought up blood from within, flooding his mouth, his throat, staining his jagged teeth.

He must look such the demon, here and now, and his muscles were too tired to spasm but light twitches, lungs collapsing, locking up in a freeze that bubbled up thick globs of hacked up blood, his death throes well on their way.

It grew gray, smeared, senses going out one by one, and Wilson still talked, fast and pitched and shaky, and there was muffled touch from hands holding onto him, brushing the entry point of sword and trying to apply pressure to the steaming wound, but it was too late.

Too little, too late, but Maxwell knew it meant otherwise; always late, always little, and as if it ever mattered in the end.

 _He_ never mattered in the end, Maxwell knew, the faded feeling of teardrops falling to his face as he heaved in his last struggling breaths, and hands were tangled in his suit and Wilson cried for his death but Maxwell _knew_ all too well of performance, of obligation.

Next life would set him closer to the inevitable, to his end, and he didn't need Wilson to be there to see it. The man was too softhearted, too much within him for Maxwell to ever describe, and he…

He didn't deserve to see Maxwell kill himself as much as he has. The scars sprawling his wrists, up his arms attested to all the failed caught attempts by now, and it was unfair that he had to twist Wilson into giving him tried true justice but this place had never been fair to begin with and this, _this_ was what little he could do for Wilson, to try and make up for all that he was.

Wilson did not need the burdens, the stress and strain, the haunting nightmarish memories. He had so much going for him, elsewhere, and Maxwell had been the one to take it all away.

Wilson did not deserve to be burdened down by Maxwell, not anymore, not ever.

Next life he hoped to be the last. Perhaps he'd be lucky; the end felt closer and closer the more he indulged in such thoughts, and they soothed the rage into thick cold dead understanding, willing knowledge.

Wilson's face flashed in his eyes, hovering over him, wet stormy eyes and drawn down concern and horror, tear trails staining his face as he held Maxwell in his lap, and Maxwell-

Maxwell raised a shaky hand, bloodied and corrupted in his thick disgusting excuse for life essence, and lightly trailed his knuckles to that familiar bearded face. 

For a moment, such a brief moment, a wobbly smile tugged at his lips, manic and bright, shining with hidden madness, and oh god did he _love_ this man.

And then a cold shot, a shiver, a shudder and choke on overflowing blood, 

and Maxwell was gone.


End file.
